


everlasting

by fadinglove



Category: The Dark Artifices Series - Cassandra Clare, The Shadowhunter Chronicles - Cassandra Clare
Genre: Fae & Fairies, M/M, One Shot, Serious Injuries, Short One Shot, Stolen Moments, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-29
Updated: 2017-05-29
Packaged: 2018-11-06 05:28:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11029593
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadinglove/pseuds/fadinglove
Summary: And after a moment's silence, Mark feels the touch of another's hand on his own.





	everlasting

**Author's Note:**

> the very first fic I ever posted on this account was mark/kieran, and i'm revisiting this lovely ship. enjoy!

"Nothing about you is ugly," says Kieran, and his voice is quiet, face open and devoid of all arrogance, nervousness flickering behind his eyes. Ebony and a gleaming silver.

Mark upturns his face and he is not surprised when their lips meet.

Quiet, only the sound of rushing water. While the Hunt is at rest after a long night of ripping souls from bodies and draining life from every ground, overturning corpses and turning away at the long bellow of Gwyn's horn, they have silently treaded to an undisturbed area.

Mark has not grown used to the beauty of Faerie. Not yet. It surprises him at every turn, from the peculiar plants and vines that entwine the hills to soaring mountains of still, vast, reflective ice to barren deserts of sun and snakes. There is ethereal beauty inlaid between every grain of dirt and blade of grass, much like its people.

And he is still not used to Kieran. He has grown accustomed to his hands and hair and contrasted eyes but his breath is still stolen at every glance of his magnificently carved face, expressive and royal. He will never be used to such beauty.

He suspects Kieran is not used to him either.

* * *

Mark Blackthorn watches this new addition to the Hunt, a faerie princeling, be beaten. He feels every slash of the whip as if it is burning into his own skin, pressing marks and welts of thick red that will never fade completely.

The more voracious members laugh, and the abuse is vicious. They yell taunts and curses, words Mark cannot define after all his time in Faerie. He does not know who this new Hunter is, only that he was royal.

Mark can tell; there is something in the defiant twist of his mouth, haughty look to his gaze. And it was something that should have irritated him, but it did the opposite. Mark found admiration in the way the prince kept his composure and the superior look, not giving anyone the glory of seeing him cry out in pain.

He does not surrender.

And Mark is reminded of himself. 

* * *

"Is this alright," Kieran whispers, trailing his hands over every rough patch of Mark's skin, grazing long-faded runes. His hair glows a tentative cerulean. It is endearing.

"More than alright," and Mark feels fireworks rush up his body, sparking and fizzing out only to come alive again. He cannot describe the feeling, the burning desire to pull another boy close and feel every inch of him forever and ever and ever.

Love, he thinks, and is kissed open-mouthed by the princeling.

"I have known only sorrow and pain, of the loss of my family. Every night I have called for them, my sisters and brothers, my parents." Mark pulls back momentarily. "And now when I look at you I feel... I feel..."

"Hope," Kieran gently lowers his face into the crook of Mark's neck. "A happiness."

"Yes," Mark holds the faerie. "That is exactly it."

* * *

There is a deserted clearing with blood spattered on the grass, the dirt, the trees. In the middle hunches pitifully the royal faerie. He is in pain, too tired and hurt to move, but when Mark draws nearer he holds his head high, still.

"I know your name not." Mark tilts his head, a silent inquiry.

"I am son of the Unseelie King, Prince Kieran," the boy declares, in a voice that would once have been admired and listened to by many of the Court. "And you-" His eyes widen. "You are the Shadowhunter."

"Yes, I am," he says just as firmly.

"How-" Kieran shifts as if to rise, but his face contorts in pain as he falls back down on his knees, having momentarily been distracted from his wounds.

"I can tend," Mark tells him, "to your injuries."

"I have no need of charity, or your pity," the prince snaps, and the stubbornness shines brightly in his face again.

The Blackthorn steps forward, in a moment that would define the rest of his days in Faerie, and maybe time after that. Forevermore.

"It is not charity, or pity. I am merely offering my assistance. This would imply that you will have to give me something in return, later."

And after a moment's silence, Mark feels the touch of another's hand on his own.

* * *

Faerie has the darkest nights. The sky is black, lit by a sea of stars, and it is possible to see someone only if they are in very close proximity. Mark turns to his side and watches Kieran in fitful sleep.

Beautiful.

He closes his eyes and waits for dreams.


End file.
